Hurdles
by oneiromancer242
Summary: Reader prompt : 1977, a young boy from the suburbs of DC becomes an eight-time world record holder in track and field, sparking controversy over Mutant participation in sports. Peter and those around him deal with the fall-out from his brief blaze of glory.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N : A prompt for hp80 who would like to see something about Peter's experiences as a world record holder (briefly) and how he dealt with that experience. Enjoy! xx**

1

By the time the two men had left his office, Oliver Bloomsbury was just about ready to start banging his head against a wall and not stop until this had all gone quietly away. He'd *known* that kid was a bad gamble, knew deep in his heart as soon as he'd recognised the kid who he'd once dropped from the basketball team at the try-outs that he really shouldn't take that risk. Track and field was different though – he remembered that the Maximoff kid was a terrible team player, but surely in an event where he had only himself to count on, he couldn't be such a bad idea.

Besides, he was _fast_ …. Way faster than anyone else that Oliver had to pitch to the championships this year. He cursed his vanity at wanting to pull down a record for his team, wanting that glory, the knowledge that if he pitched the kid then he could win. It had been the only reason he'd eventually decided, against his better judgement, to let Maximoff have a chance.

21 now and grown up tall, long-legged and with a narrow wiry frame that was perfect for athletics, the kid still had that cocky grin he remembered from his high-school basketball days. In fact, very little aside from some extra height had changed about him at all. He still had that long, thick silver-grey hair that no matter how many times he was told to cut or tie back he still would not. And he still seemed to be defying authority with every glance from those deep dark eyes, still had that sarcastic look on his face that had Oliver almost able to hear him thinking _screw you, man,_ every time he was given a command.

The rest of the team hated him instantly. Oliver almost dropped him in his first three weeks of training just because of how much having him around lowered everyone else's morale. He barely needed to stretch before he was ready to take on the field, goofed off continually, arrived and was ready to run without warming up, not winded even after thrashing Oliver's second-fastest runner hands down and not even breaking a sweat. Worse, where everyone else would bring along some fruit, healthy snacks, bottles of water, he'd always come with a bagful of Twinkies and chocolate, making everyone feel awful that they had to work at their fitness whilst his training regime seemed to consist mainly of eating junk and cracking wise. He'd even sometimes scoot off to the nearby McDonald's during breaks, making everyone hate him even more for not making himself feel sick by running on several Big Macs. Despite the resentment of the rest of the team, though, Oliver's vanity just wouldn't let him drop Maximoff from the roster. He was just too damned good to let go.

He'd expected Maximoff to bring him a trophy or two from the upcoming Track and Field Championships. What he hadn't expected, however, had been for him to pull out all the stops and bring him eight broken world records. There had been press all over the field after that, Oliver stunned and slack-jawed in the pictures in the papers, Maximoff grinning that maddening Cheshire Cat grin, looking like he'd just gone for a gentle stroll rather than zoomed around for the past day smashing records in every distance event and two of the hurdles. Still full of energy and looking inhumanly athletic in blue vest and tiny red shorts, happy to talk the ear off any reporter who came near him. Not even an attempt at any kind of humility. The papers took to calling him 'Quicksilver', and teams from across the country had started calling Oliver's office asking if he'd be willing to give up his star runner for some quite dazzling sums of money.

Then the two men in grey suits had come calling, and told him that those world records were going to be declared null and void now that they had discovered a little secret about the Maximoff kid. Oliver didn't even know what an X-gene was, but it had been very patiently explained to him over the past hour.

He'd thought all those blood tests had just been about doping – to be fair, he hadn't entirely ruled out the possibility that Maximoff was on something, he certainly acted that way. The kid had been fine with it all, though both Oliver and the officials had noticed with some distaste that rather than a vibrant ruby red, his blood was a dark shade of crimson that was almost black. He'd sat and grinned and chattered away whilst they took all their samples, and Oliver had never anticipated that he would later be contacted and told that far from being on drugs, Maximoff wasn't even human. Apparently, the sporting body who had overseen the Championships didn't think it was particularly fair that a 'Mutant' should be competing against humans.

Suddenly it all made sense why Maximoff had been the fastest kid Oliver had ever coached. Why he didn't even need to work at it to beat anybody, and how he kept up that incredibly tiny figure and perfect form. No wonder nobody could get near him, now that it was obvious he was some kind of freak of nature. So there went the world records, and now the press were calling Oliver to hound him about why he hadn't declared that he had a Mutant running track, how he could justify that, angry parents of the other team members telling him he was a disgrace for putting some kind of freakish abomination against their kids, for even allowing him to be near them at all. Once the controversy went national, the debate had been over fast. Genetic tests for all professional athletes – no more Mutants in competitions. Even if their Mutation didn't help them in the slightest, they were simply not welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N : Pretty hefty trigger warning for self-harm on this chapter. Stay safe lovelies xx**

2

Peter felt a little guilty about the Mutant sports ban, but mostly just furious. After all that time keeping his speed down, trying *so* hard not to put people's backs up, making the biggest effort he possibly could to fit in! All of it had been for nothing. Two brief weeks of glory when he'd been in all the local papers, for once ventured outside during daylight quite a bit because people would recognise him, even ask for a picture with him sometimes. It had been so wonderful to feel like people loved him for something, even if he knew it was a huge lie.

None of it had been easy on him. Keeping himself down to a fast, but not crazy fast, speed had taken so much effort it exhausted him. He'd tried everything to make it easier, shown up for practice half-cut on vodka, tried Quaaludes and Valium and everything else under the sun and still despite any of that could feel his body screaming at him every time he took those hurdles at what the human world considered a phenomenal pace, but which to him was still slow-motion. It had been agony to keep himself going on what was to him a ridiculously small amount of calories, even that making people disgusted with him but still necessitating a days' rest afterward just to make sure he didn't work himself to a collapse. Didn't they understand what it was like for him? How hard it was to do things at their pace? How much it hurt his legs to not go any faster than they would believe?

Despite all that difficulty, the cramps and the lightheadedness and the frustration, it had all seemed worth it just to see his name at the top of the board. To stand on that podium and hear people cheer for him and lift up that medal and be dazzled by the flashbulbs. To have people glad to meet him and look at him as an inspiration, to feel accepted and admired. For two weeks, he'd felt like a hero and been treated like one. Two weeks out of his twenty-one years, he had felt like people liked him. It had been the best two weeks of his life. Now they hated him more than ever.

For such a short while, it had been 'hero' and 'stunning' and '8 world record holder', and now it was 'cheat' and 'freak' and 'disgraced athlete'. Turned out, it felt even worse for people to loathe you when they'd loved you once.

He went back to hiding himself away in his basement. Even shouted at his mother a couple of times in his fury at having been stripped of his titles and banned from ever competing again. Ate boxes of Little Debbies with one hand whilst he played on the arcade cabinet with the other and felt better for a very short while before he'd remember why he was sad and it all came crashing down again. Cut for the first time in years and found that even that did not have the desired effect and did nothing to help the painful anger he felt. Too furious even for tears he'd cleaned up the wound and spent a few days carefully dodging his mother when he emerged from the shower, only daring to wear short sleeves again when the marks had paled to match his other scars.

He'd ruined it now. Not only for himself, but for everyone else. He wondered how many other Mutant kids there were who had powers that did nothing to help them throw a javelin or run a track, but who would now never compete because of him. Because of this arrogant, desperate boy who just wanted to be recognised as good at something – and running was all he'd ever been good at. Bitterly resented the authorities who'd put that rule in place, the reporters who had once sung his praises and now called him names in their papers, everyone who had spoken out against Mutants in these past weeks. Brooded and skulked around the house until finally, he had realised he couldn't blame the world for this. It wasn't their fault he'd pulled the wool over their eyes and shown off like that. It was his.

If he hadn't been so desperate for people to think well of him, this wouldn't have happened. There would be Mutants all over the world competing and doing what made them happy. Kids playing baseball and hockey and running track and leaping hurdles peacefully, but one vain little boy had screwed it up for all of them. He could only blame himself for that. Drank even though he knew it didn't help, tried without success to drug himself to sleep, started sitting banging his wrists against the side of a table until bruises blossomed over them just to feel something other than this hateful misery. Resented himself and his powers, hardly even spoke to his family, emerged for meals then would vanish downstairs to lock himself in his room and feel sick with fury at himself for doing this to everyone. Those dark thoughts he used to have back when he was a teenager and felt like a burden on his family had come back, tormenting him with the idea that there was never going to be anything better than this for him, that he was going to live out the rest of his life as Quicksilver the Fraudulent Freak and never get anywhere no matter how fast he ran. Started considering going for a long run somewhere remote and heading away from the nearest hospital until he couldn't run any more, or just stopping eating altogether, which would probably be a faster method of dealing with himself for good.

How could he have done this to the world? To his mother, who had always been there for him and who now had to face criticism from total strangers when she went grocery shopping? To all those Mutants out there who just wanted to join in? He felt selfish and worthless, absolutely without anything left to give to the world. His very existence seemed only to annoy others. He didn't go outside for weeks, looking paler than ever and just a little too thin when his mother had eventually decided she'd had enough of him beating himself up and had ordered him upstairs one afternoon.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N : I think I need a nice, silly fic prompt!**

3

Magda had pulled out the kitchen chair and given him a pointed look as he emerged from the basement, blinking at the flood of sunshine coming through the windows. Set a heaped bowl of her famous mac and cheese in front of him. Peter gave her an apologetic look

"I'm not really that hungry, Mom" he told her. Magda shrugged

"Don't care. Eat. You look awful"

"But Mom –"

"Do you want to get sick again, Peter?" she asked, an edge to her voice that brooked no further refusal, "You can't mope around in your room half-starving yourself forever. I won't have it. You're far too precious to me to see that happen"

He had obliged her, soon finding that his favourite kid food was still a perfect cure for melancholy, feeling a little comforted by the time he had finished and his mother had joined him at the table and pushed an envelope over to him. Already neatly opened and postmarked from Tampa. He gave her a puzzled glance.

"Your Coach dropped it over this morning" she explained, "I've read it, I think you should too"

Peter had got used to getting mail over the last little while. At first letters from other teams offering him all sorts of tempting deals, fan mail, even other athletes begging him for tips to improve their own performance. It had felt wonderful to get some post – he'd never got a letter in his life before that – and all the praise had been a heady stimulant to his already swelling ego. His favourite fan mail was in a box under the bed, stored away for when he needed that little boost. He hadn't touched it since the letters had started to change from praise to condemnation and outright abuse, and Coach Bloomsbury had started opening and reading them before deciding whether to pass them on. He might never have liked Peter much, but it seemed cruel to let a kid read all the awful things that were being said about him. Especially when a few of those letters had contained death threats.

Peter picked up the envelope as though it might bite him, carefully extracted the card inside, a pleasant little photographic print of Tampa Bay on the front of it. The handwriting was neat and careful, written in a dark blue ink that looked like fountain pen to him.

 _Dear Quicksilver,_ it began,

 _My name is Emily and I'm a Mutant, like you. My power is empathy, I feel what other people do, and sometimes that's a bit difficult for me but mostly it means I can help people feel better. I used to play volleyball in a local league but now I had to give it up because of the Trask Testing they've brought in._

He put it down then, not wanting to read any further. Not wanting any more accusation or hatred. He had enough of that for himself to hear it from anybody else. To his surprise, Magda picked up the card and handed it back to him with a small, kind smile.

"Keep reading," she told him.

 _I was really sorry to give up volleyball, and it made me think of how bad you must be feeling to have to give up track and field because of something you can't help. I can't feel how you feel, you're too far away, but I have an idea that you must feel pretty lousy._

 _I wanted to tell you not to be sad, but that's silly. You'll be sad for a long time. It's getting harder to be a Mutant these days but I think it's going to get better for us one day. I hope you don't blame yourself for everything that's happened but I think you probably do. Please don't, you can't help what ordinary people think of us. You didn't do this to us, they did, you just wanted to run._

 _Please keep running wherever you can and don't give up. We might not be able to compete anymore but we can still do the things that make us happy, nobody can stop us._

 _Regards, your fan and friend,_

 _Emily Holland._

Magda reached out and gently brushed away a tear from Peter's cheek which he had not been aware that he had shed. Took his hand and squeezed it tightly.

"She's right, Peter" she said, "It's not your fault."

"Really?" he murmured, "But all the papers…"

"Ignore them, I don't care what they think of you or of me. You're my little hero and I'm proud of you. Wanda is too, and Lorna, they don't care what anyone else thinks either. You, Quicksilver, are always going to be out in front of the competition and that makes me very very proud. One day the world is going to need you and people like you around and we'll be sorry we were ever cruel"

He tried out a wobbly smile, and Magda was glad to see that a hint of it touched his eyes for the first time in weeks. Very gently, she turned over the hand she was holding and pushed back his sleeve to reveal the ugly colours of bruising over his wrist, fading from green at the edges to purplish red where only that morning he'd been sat banging it repeatedly.

"This has to stop, honey," she whispered, held his gaze though he tried to look away, "I can't stand to see you doing this to yourself. Not for any reason, but especially not because of what ignorant people say"

Peter tried to pull his hand away, but she tightened her grip just enough to stop him, enclosing his slender wrist in her fingers with room to spare. That smile had fled now, replaced with some deep fear and hurt that she hated to see in his eyes.

"Do you think we need to take you back to the doctors?" she asked. He shook his head quickly.

"No doctors, please" he said, "I'll stop, I promise. I just… it helps"

"Because it makes it visible" Magda said, let his wrist go, glad that he didn't try to pull his hand away again, "So we can see how much you hurt inside, because you're hurt outside too. I understand that. But you'll do yourself harm like this, baby boy and I don't want to see that happen"

Magda picked up the card from where he had left it laying on the table, handed it to him with a comforting smile

"Don't put this one away in your box. Put it on the wall, somewhere you'll see it every day. Read it when you feel like you want to hurt yourself, think about what that nice girl in Florida said"

Peter nodded, rested his head on her shoulder as she put her arms around him and squeezed. Could feel her love and concern almost like a radiant heat against his body. When she had let him go, there were tears standing in her eyes too.

"Got plans for the afternoon?" she asked. Peter shook his head and shrugged

"Thought I'd hang out, play some Pong, listen to music… not much"

"Then stay up here with me," she said firmly, "There's some stupid movie on TV, and I made a caramel cheesecake. You, me, a hug and a food coma – sound good?"

"Yeah," he tried another smile, this one came off a lot better, "Sounds good"

By the time Peter had fallen asleep with his head in his mother's lap, some of that melancholy had started to dissipate, leaving behind the warmth of Emily's words and the sense that maybe, if one stranger cared enough to say those things, there were others who didn't hate him as much as he thought. Watching flying saucers descend on Earth through half-closed eyes, glad of his mother's comforting arm resting around his shoulders, the ache in his wrists starting to fade away, it felt like perhaps if he was patient, his chance might come around again. Maybe he didn't need world records to do something good, maybe he just needed to be patient and do his best to wait. Maybe there were more Mutants like Emily around, who would stand with him one day. Magda had pulled a blanket over him, was sat with one hand gently stroking his shoulder, enclosing him in a protective circle of warmth that felt like an impenetrable force-field against all the hate that the world had poured out recently. He had dozed off, feeling just slightly over-full and sedated by the love surrounding him.

That evening he had put the photographs from the Championship back up on his bedroom wall, and Emily's card beside them, right beside the bed where he could see them and remember that after all, nobody was fast enough to make an accusation stick to Quicksilver for too long. One day, he would outrun their prejudice and show them what a Mutant like him could really do.


End file.
